It’s a giant piece of fabric attached to strings which are attached to chains which are attached to swings. Humans swing on the swings and lay under the fabric and watch it billow, never the same way twice. There are pigeons in crates and people with woolen capes reading from papers that are long and longer and longest. We hear their voices coming from brown paper sack radios strewn about the floor, on a bench, right next to you. The word that sticks out the most is AND.
Somehow, amidst the chaos of all the people and the dodging of swings and the weird voices and the pigeons, you feel very relaxed, enveloped in a calm energy. It was kind of like magic.
Ann Hamilton: The Event of a Thread.
Even Pickle fell asleep with no tears or whining or wiggling. She felt it too.